Hello, my name is Mycroft And I'm a workaholic
by HiM'e'iTSu
Summary: Who knew that group psychotherapy could be so effective and entertaining? Then again, how could it not with Mycroft Holmes and DI Lestrade...


**A/N:** I know absolutely nothing about group therapy or any kind of psychotherapy, but I tried to justify all the mistakes in the end, so bear with them please.

**Beta:**OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

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><p><em>Who knew that group psychotherapy could be so effective and entertaining? Then again, how could it not with Mycroft Holmes and DI Lestrade...<em>

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><p><em><strong>Hello, my name is Mycroft. And I'm a workaholic.<strong>_

"Hello everyone. My name is Peter. I, uh…"

Mycroft watched the nervous man fidget, glance down at his hands clasped on top of his knees and then raise his head up again to look at the small group of men, all gathered in a circle.

"Don't worry, Peter. All of us here understand your hesitance to admit it, but trust me, it will help you." That was the man who annoyed Mycroft the most of the six of them. The psychologist, the one with the power over them, poor sods persuaded to visit this group psychotherapy by their friends, colleagues or loved ones. Yes, sometimes even your second half could be this cruel to you. In Mycroft's case it was his own PA who insisted that her boss needed to learn how _not _to work. She was under an illusion that he did not know how to relax. He wondered what might have given her that idea. Maybe when he asked her for the prognosis for the meeting that was to happen half a year from that day? Or it could have been his absolute rejection to the thought of giving her an evening off? Or she probably was over-tired from the constant jet lag caused by flying from one country to the other with less than a day's break between trips…

No matter what happened to be the last straw, the young elegant woman had snapped and organized this psychological training especially for committed workaholics. Stupid idea, if you asked Mycroft, but, strangely, no one did. His opinion, crucial in all government matters, was completely disregarded this time.

There were four other men, unlucky sods like him, each waiting their turn to speak while the psychologist, a specialist Mycroft's PA had specifically called, made his comments and encouragements in a calm, soothing tone – a very annoying calm, soothing tone.

Peter, the first victim of group psychotherapy, continued to rattle on about how eventless his life was – so full with only papers and documents, business meetings and conferences. The hypocrite loved being constantly busy but here, in a meeting his wife had made him visit under the threat of not allowing him to buy a new car for Christmas, he complained about his job and lied through his teeth about how much he wanted to spend more time with his family. Mycroft knew his wife, a typical woman of power who liked taking control of the lives of her family members. Obviously she believed that her husband needed the psychotherapy, and so here he was like a dependent husband he was (most likely a victim of a marriage of convenience).

Only half listening to the man bemoaning his busy life, Mycroft took his time to watch the others. He did not spare the psychotherapist one glance, having read his file as soon as his PA announced this 'brilliant' idea of hers. Next in their small circle, on Mycroft's right was a small man, clearly on his way to becoming overweight, but still looking appealing with his friendly half smile and the way he attentively listened to Peter's every word. The name tag on his chest stated 'John', but in Mycroft's mind he looked more like a Bob or maybe a Craig. On the other side of Peter was sitting a man, who was clearly feeling as bored as Mycroft, but was not as good at concealing it. He was lounging in a chair, his posture relaxed, head lowered to his chest and eyes drooping – he was about to fall asleep at any minute. His arms were crossed on his chest, obscuring the name tag, but Mycroft could make out the first letter – G. On that man's right, which was Mycroft's immediate left, was sitting the last member of their gathering. The most notable thing about him was a mop of messy ginger hair; it instantly attracted the attention of anyone looking at him. Mycroft remembered that hair from a couple of social gatherings; the man worked for one of the government organizations and, judging by the way he kept checking his phone clasped tightly in his hand, he was the one who actually needed this therapy. Mycroft refused to acknowledge _himself_ as such.

"Now, Peter, just relax…Thank you for sharing with us." The psychotherapist said as soon as Peter finished talking and was catching his breath, taking in lungfuls of air as if he'd just run a marathon. "How about next time you go to work you try taking a longer break?"

The horrified expression on Peter's face showed clearly what he thought of that idea. A couple of soothing words later they moved on to the next person.

"Hello," it was John speaking. "I'm a doctor."

Mycroft blinked, the man whose name started with G snorted, the ginger man frowned.

"I mean I work as a doctor. Plastic surgery." The man hastened to add. "I'm not _the Doctor_. Haha…but my son is a fan of that show. So, you know, he enjoys when I tell people that I work as a doctor in this manner." He was talking fast, swallowing half of the endings of his words, and gesticulating with both hands. "My daughter works around here…" He waved his hand around and Mycroft decided that 'around here' was a pretty nice way to indicate Downing Street, 10. He still wondered how his inventive PA had managed to get this room as a place for the group therapy. Granted, all the people present were involved with some serious government facility or at least were related to someone who was, but still it seemed a little bit too much.

When it was his turn to speak – a moment Mycroft dreaded since he entered – he clasped his hands over the handle of his umbrella and schooled his face into an impassive expression.

"Hello, my name is Mycroft. My PA claims I'm a workaholic."

"It's nice to meet you, Mycroft." The psychotherapist stumbled over his name slightly, unusual for modern days. "You said your PA claimed-"

"Insisted more like."

"Yes. But what do you think about it?"

"I work no more than I can allow myself to. I do not exhaust myself, so I'm not inclined to call myself…" he paused, cringing. "A workaholic."

The man nodded and hummed. From this, Mycroft concluded that the psychotherapist completely ignored his every word.

"I want you to understand, Mycroft," the use of his first name was quite unpleasant as Mycroft didn't give the man the liberty to do so. "That the first step is admitting that you have a problem. Only after that will we be able to start working on your issues."

Mycroft lifted his eyebrows, scandalized, and silently waited until the other man's smile slipped from his face.

"Mycroft?"

"I'd prefer Mr. Holmes." Mycroft said with dignity, crossing his legs and putting both hands on one knee. He looked down at the man, which might have been more effective had they not both been sitting. Still, he was quite satisfied with the way the psychologist leaned back in his chair, surprised and taken aback.

"What..?" There was a crash and the man who was practically sleeping just a moment ago had almost fallen from his chair. Mycroft paid no attention to him.

"The use of the first names is a basic with this treatment." The psychologist contradicted sullenly.

Mycroft lifted one brow and stayed silent.

"When was the last time you relaxed? Had fun?" The man attempted another tactic.

"I enjoy my work." Mycroft replied without hesitation. His eyes never left the other man's, daring him to look away first.

"But you cannot live with your work only. You need to have something else in your life."

"I have…family." He thought that sounded good. He visited Mummy every Sunday; that should count as something. Unfortunately, those visits were not always pleasant, especially when he managed to drag Sherlock along, but it proved that he had more than just 'work' in his life.

"How about a hobby?"

Mycroft had almost said 'My work is my hobby' but something else diverted his attention. The already fully alert man on his left, the one with silvery greying hair, was staring at him without blinking; his grey eyes were narrowed and running over Mycroft's frame with scrutiny that bordered on inappropriate.

"I…" Mycroft turned back to the psychotherapist. "I like reading in my free time." He completed the statement with a smile.

"That's very good. See, we are moving forward. That's nice, Mycroft."

Mycroft's smile turned strained and he nodded stiffly. Better to give this man what he wanted; maybe then he would leave Mycroft alone.

"Well, then. Thank you for sharing with us. Let's move on to another person." The psychotherapist turned away from him, finally, and addressed the man who was still boring holes into Mycroft's head. "Hello, you are…"

"Greg," the man answered readily, uncrossing his arms and uncovering the nametag that proclaimed 'Gregory'.

"Would you like to tell us about yourself, Greg?"

"Well…" the man looked up, eyes becoming unfocused as he regarded the decorated ceiling. When they settled on the psychotherapist again, the man smirked. "Not really."

"Greg, it will be easier for you if you cooperate." The psychotherapist said, unaffected by the rude objection.

"Listen," the man changed his position, from relaxed to a more businesslike manner, leaning forward with both elbows on his knees and hands clasped. "Let me be honest with you. That's what you want, isn't it? Honesty?"

The tone of his voice didn't suggest any nice continuation. The barely noticeable smirk, playing on the man's lips, hinted on a rude or at least snide remark. Mycroft really liked that man.

Greg's eyes surveyed those present before he answered, his gaze for a split second meeting Mycroft's. The man's smirk grew as he noticed the similar glint in Mycroft's blue eyes.

"So, honestly, I have no desire to be here." Greg continued when his eyes settled back on the psychotherapist. "Frankly, I'd better be at home alone, or at the pub with my mates or even at work. Yes, at work. Don't look at me like the word is poison." He rolled his eyes and leaned back in the chair.

"Who are you? As in profession?"

"Detective Inspector," the man replied and by his tone it was obvious that he was proud with his job. Mycroft could relate to that, and surely resect the man. "And I'm here only because one Sergeant of mine decided that I work too much. But with my field of work it's normal to stay after hours and rush back to the Yard at any hour."

The psychotherapist nodded, but eyed the DI with condescension that spoke volumes of what he thought of the other man's opinion. Greg obviously noticed that and frowned even before he heard his next words.

"But you do agree that you work too much?" The man asked, pointing his finger at the DI. His eyes lit up as if he had insight into the other man's thoughts. Unfortunately, he was the only one thinking that way. Greg was not impressed.

"I work a lot. But not too much." He replied calmly.

"And that's where you are wrong!"

Mycroft, amused and only a bit outraged by such attitude, glanced at the DI and waited for his answer. Greg on the other hand didn't lose his calm. Still as relaxed and collected as ever, he sent the psychotherapist a glare and simply stated:

"I doubt that."

"You need time to relax. To live a life. You should not allow your work to rule your life."

"I'll do as I please, thank you very much."

Greg's opponent scowled but he wasn't giving up just yet.

"Gentlemen," Mycroft interfered before the disagreement could escalate into a full quarrel. They both turned their attention to him. Mycroft wasn't pleased to notice that they both looked mildly exasperated. Straightening in his chair, he glanced at both of them with reserved superiority, a look which established his authority without unneeded arrogance. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but our time is out."

In a second the DI's face changed, irritation disappearing and replaced by a small smile; he gave a slight nod in gratitude. The psychotherapist glanced at the clock on the wall to be sure. With regret he announced their session over and reminded them that they'd be meeting in the same room the next day. Mycroft doubted he'd be attending; unless his PA would be as persistent.

People started gathering their things and leaving – the psychotherapist the first one to get out, but Mycroft hung behind to send a text to Anthea, stating his distaste with her methods and her foolish ideas. He didn't notice how the only ones left were the DI and Mycroft himself.

"So…Holmes, is it?" The DI startled him with a question and Mycroft spun on his heels to see the man still lounging in his chair.

"Yes," Mycroft replied with dignity. He wasn't sure what the man wanted.

Greg eyed him again, from head to toe just like the first time and, biting his lip in thought, asked. "Do you happen to know one…Sherlock Holmes?"

Oh, so that explained the sudden animosity. Suddenly everything seemed much clearer.

Mycroft smiled. "So, you know my brother."

"Your brother," the DI repeated. "Sherlock Holmes is your brother?"

After Mycroft nodded, the man let out a long breath and ran a hand through his grey hair.

"That's…unexpected. I mean, I thought you were related but a brother…" He looked Mycroft straight in the eye. "My condolences."

Mycroft chuckled. "Well, my younger brother is insufferable but I have my ways of dealing with him."

"Could you share with me? Because I can't deal with him any longer."

Mycroft's smile grew and he replied thoughtfully. "Well, I guess I can share my experience. How about dinner?"

"Sure."

/

"Sir? The Prime Minister called, he asked about the negotiations." Anthea's voice sounded concerned as she was calling her boss for the last half hour and only now had he answered.

"The papers should be on my desk, send them to him."

"And what about the meeting you have in an hour?" She left her desk and entered his office, nearing the desk and searching for said papers. The office was dark save for the small lamp lit on the table. Mycroft Holmes's location was unknown to her.

"Cancel it." Was Mycroft's short reply, but Anthea thought she heard some unusual background noise at the other end of the line. Was that music?

"Cancel?" She asked, unable to believe what she was hearing.

"Yes."

Was she imagining things or did she just hear another male voice along with Mycroft's?

"Sir, but your opponent will be dissatisfied with that. I'm sure you understand…"

"I do." Mr. Holmes replied shortly. He sounded slightly out of breath to her ears.

"Sir?" Anthea murmured, her tone questioning. She was only a little worried and a lot more suspicious. There was another background noise on the other end of the line; the rustling could be heard unnaturally loud in the quietness of the empty office. "If you don't mind me asking, where are you?"

"I'm sorry, dear Anthea, but I do mind."

"But, Sir!"

"You were the one who said that I needed to work less." He said, stressing the pronoun. There also was a soft rumbling of another male voice, but she could not decipher the words. "So, send the documents, cancel the meeting and you are-ah…you are free for the evening."

Breathless, stumbling over his words, and certainly in company with another man. Anthea stood, frozen in place by her boss's desk, her unseeing eyes cast downwards and mind processing the information.

After a pause, Mr. Holmes continued. "So, I'm merely following your advice."

"Yes, Sir." She replied, more by the force of habit.

She was ready to hang up when his voice, a bit more composed now, said:

"Also, that man you hired for the group therapy…He's a fraud, knows nothing about psychology, took the money and is going to be out of the country by noon tomorrow. Please, notify my personal guards and they will take care of that."

He paused and Anthea heard more rustling and something that sounded suspiciously like a stifled moan.

"I guess we are done with group therapy. But I suppose you'd be pleased to know that I'd found myself a…a hobby. A very fine hobby."

"Yes, Sir."

"Also, there is a high possibility that I'll be arriving late tomorrow so rearrange my schedule and you can have the morning to yourself."

"Sure, Sir."

"Good night."

He hung up but she still listened to the dial tone as a lazy smirk slowly formed on her face. Well, that was not what she expected but, it appeared, her plan still worked.

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><p><strong>AN: **If you liked the story, please, do leave me a review:)

Also if anyone is interested, when I was describing John I was imagining Craig from Doctor Who. But that was just a random piece of information.


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